Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

“Rina, we have a lot going against us: meeting under such lousy circumstances, the difference in our ages and backgrounds. We can try and say screw it all-we’re our own people and love is all that matters-but you know as well as I that the baggage our parents loaded on our backs is with us forever. Let’s both try to be tolerant of them-and tolerant with each other.”

She nodded.

“I love you,” he said. “Kiss me.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek.

“No.” He cupped her chin in his hands. “I mean really kiss me.”

He lowered his mouth onto hers, and at once he felt the passion she’d been holding back, her lips parting and her breath warm and sweet. She threw her arms around his neck, almost a chokehold, and latched onto his mouth like a suckling baby to a breast. Not wanting to get excited, he tried to break away, but she brought his mouth back to hers, greedily taking what had been denied her for so long.

She pulled him down to the floor and fell on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. Her hands tugged at his shirt, jerking the tail out of his pants, fumbling with the buttons. Decker was caught between his own fever and the guilt he knew she’d feel if they continued. The fire won out. He tore at his shirt, popping a button as it opened, then yanked at the zipper of her dress. He’d opened it half-way when Jacob cried out-a piercing screech like the whistle of a tea kettle.

“Oh God!” Rina wept, covering her face in her hands. “Life is so damn frustrating!”

“Tell me about it,” Decker groaned.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, panting. “I’m going nuts. I need to escape to a desert island.”

“Just take me with you.”

Jacob began to howl.

She chomped on her thumbnail, trying to steady her shaking hands. “I can’t deal with this, Peter.”

Decker stood up, buttoned his shirt, and tucked it into his pants. “You sit and dream of rum and coconuts. I’ll see what’s wrong with Jake.”

When he came out, she had regained her composure.

“Is he okay?” Rina asked.

“Yes,” said Decker. “For the time being.”

“It’s going to be a long night.”

“Would you like me to stay-”

“No,” Rina answered quickly. “No, that won’t do at all.” She took Decker’s hands, squeezed them, then let them go.

“Now I know why there are such strict separation laws in Judaism,” she said.

“I hate every one of them,” Decker answered. “I don’t suppose you’d want to continue where we’d left off.”

She shook her head. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve become very tired, Peter. I’d probably be terrible.”

He could deal with that, but didn’t push it. The moment had been lost.

The alley was a tunnel of black and smelled liked a setup. Decker unhitched his gun and took out a penlight. Shining it on the lumpy asphalt, he inched his way toward the rear of the third building on his left, nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting garbage and excrement. He stopped. There was something wrong, and as much as he wanted a handle on this case, this wasn’t the way to get one. Turning back, he froze suddenly at the sound of a hiss.

“Son of a bitch,” the hoarse voice croaked.

Decker spun around in the direction of the whisper and saw nothing but boxes and dented trash cans.

“Clementine?”

“I said no pieces, Cop.”

“It’s my security blanket.”

“That wasn’t the deal, Cop.”

Decker said, “I’ve got the cash, Clementine.” He began to sweat. Killing the penlight, he backed up against a wall. The conversation was taking place in the dark. No sense being in the spotlight.

“Throw over the green,” the raspy voice instructed. “Across the alley, second building on your right.”

“First you tell me what you know about the Countess.”

“First you toss over the bread.”

They were at a standstill. No one so far had known the Countess’s true identity, and all roads pointed to Clementine. This pow-wow had been arranged via the pimp’s number one lady. Info for cash-$200 in twenties.

He played the scenario in his head. Once he forked over the money, the pimp couldn’t escape without coming into his line of vision. And he did have his piece…

He shone his penlight across the alley and pitched the envelope of cash where Clementine had instructed.

“It better be good for what we’re paying you, Clementine.”

The pimp made no move to pick up the package.

Silence. Decker turned off the light. In the distance he saw the glowing orange tip of a cigarette.

“Name was Kate Armbruster. A mud duck from Klamath Falls, Oregon,” the voice whispered. “Picked her up when she was fourteen. She wasn’t even fresh then-a had-out piece of shit. But she worked her tail off. Got a lot of action from her. Then she got weird.”

“What happened?” the detective asked.

“Met up with a dude called the Blade-skinny, crazy cracker into knives and pain. Permanent pain, if you can dig what I’m saying. Boogying with the high beams on-smoking lots of Jim Jones. I know they offed animals-big dogs. Get the poor motherfuckers tightroped on water and watch them rip each other apart. They say Katie just loved puppies. Cut ’em up live and offer ’em to old six sixty-six himself. Some say they got more so-fist-to-cated in their taste.”

“Meaning?”

“Only one step up from animals, Cop. You put two and two together.”

“Who is this Blade?”

“Don’t know his real name. Dude must be in his twenties, average height, and skinny, like I said. Brown hair and maybe brown eyes. Can’t tell you much more. All white meat looks alike.”

“Where did they hang out, Clementine.”

“Don’t know.”

Decker illuminated the money with his penlight, aimed his.38, and shot off the tip of the envelope. The alley reverberated with the echo of the blast and filled with the smell of gunpowder. He reloaded the chamber and shut off the light.

“If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to blow your wad to bits, Clementine. Where did they hang out?”

A cackle came from the garbage cans.

“You’re a fuckin’ A, Decker,” said a hollow whisper. “An A number one fuckin’ felon. Don’t you know it’s against the law to shoot money in America?” He laughed again. “Shoot it until it ain’t nothing but a pile of green Swiss cheese. My answer’s the same. Don’t know where they did their shit, don’t know who their stooges was, don’t know ’cause I didn’t want to know, Cop. I wasn’t into that shit, so I closed my eyes.”

“Did they film their cult rituals?” Decker asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who has the films?”

“Don’t know who their customers be.”

“Who deals in snuffs around these parts?”

“Lots of people.”

“Names.”

Silence.

Decker waited.

“Talk says the main distributor is a fat fuck named Cecil Pode.” Clementine coughed-a dry, hacking sound. “Works out of his studio in Culver City.”

“Who gives Pode the films?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who does Pode sell the films to?”

“Used to sell ’em to the Countess. Like I tole you, don’t know who her customers be.”

“Let me get this straight. The Countess made films with the Blade. Then Cecil would buy them from the producer and sell the finished product back to her?”

“That way she be paid off twice. Once as the star, the other when the goods be delivered. She knew who all the weirdos be and have an easy time unloading the shit at the price she wanted.”

“Then why bother using Cecil as a distributor? Why not sell directly to the customers?”

“Rumor has it that Cecil does the filming as well as the distributing.”